


The Labyrinth

by spickandspock



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spickandspock/pseuds/spickandspock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How will I ever get out of this labyrinth! -- Simòn Bolìvar</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Labyrinth

The first time was euphoric. The initial burn of the needle was nothing compared to the fire that scorched his veins, burning him from the inside out, a delicious torture that he reveled in. Eventually, though, the hellfire that burned him dulled to a tingling warmth that ensconced his lanky frame as he languidly observed the world outside his quarters. His mind was purer that it had ever been, and there was a certain clarity that heightened his senses as he mulled over puzzling cases. This miracle provided him an escape from his nigh-perpetual boredom, and it quickly became his favourite post-case pastime. 

As the months dragged by, his wonderful seven per-cent solution stayed by his side, even when his Boswell wouldn't. Soon -- so soon! -- however, he fell to a severe bout of depression - or was it merely a clear view of the world? - which robbed him of the enjoyment he derived from his cases and cocaine.

Still, he continued his self-medication, faithfully inserting the needling into his skin and depressing the plunger, sending the precious liquid coursing through his veins. Each time, it seemed the hellfire that burned him grew hotter, until it seemed he wasn't injecting cocaine, but brimstone. No tingling warmth; only an endless, slow burn. His senses grew duller, his perceptions not as sharp, his deductions not as astute. His addiction was robbing him of the things he loved; even his faithful Boswell, his writer, his -- dare he say it? -- friend, threw his hands up, leaving the genius to fend for himself.

Watson's departure from his life galvanized him, caused him to search for a way out of his addiction. It was harder -- so much harder! -- than he originally feared, however.

First, he had Watson to hide this solution; this failed quickly, however. After all, it was far too easy for his brilliant mind to deduce the location of his vice. He even threw the cocaine away, yet soon degraded himself by digging through the rubbish heap until he found his syringe and vial.

His struggle was in vain; he could not rid himself of it. So he surrendered for the first time in his life. He injected himself once again, yet as his high began to take him away, he could not drift away in it; he could only wonder how he fell so far, and how he would escape the dark labyrinth of his addiction.


End file.
